Chapter I: Would Not Live Alway

I would not live alway--live alway below! Oh no, I'll not linger when bidden to go: The days of our pilgrimage granted us here Are enough for life's woes, full enough for its cheer: Would I shrink from the path which the prophets of God, Apostles, and martyrs, so joyfully trod? Like a spirit unblest, o'er the earth would I roam, While brethren and friends are all hastening home?

I would not live alway: I ask not to stay Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way; Where seeking for rest we but hover around, Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found; Where Hope, when she paints her gay bow in the air. Leaves its brilliance to fade in the night of despair, And joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray, Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him away.

I would not live alway--thus fettered by sin, Temptation without and corruption within; In a moment of strength if I sever the chain, Scarce the victory's mine, ere I'm captive again; E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears, And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears: The festival trump calls for jubilant songs, But my spirit her own _miserere_ prolongs.

I would not live alway--no, welcome the tomb, Since Jesus hath lain there I dread not its gloom; Where he deigned to sleep, I'll too bow my head, All peaceful to slumber on that hallowed bed. Then the glorious daybreak, to follow that night, The orient gleam of the angels of light, With their clarion call for the sleepers to rise. And chant forth their matins, away to the skies.

Who, who would live alway? away from his God, Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode, Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains, And the noontide of glory eternally reigns; Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet, Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet, While the songs of salvation exultingly roll And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul.

That heavenly music! what is it I hear? The notes of the harpers ring sweet in mine ear! And see, soft unfolding those portals of gold, The King all arrayed in his beauty behold! Oh give me, oh give me, the wings of a dove, To adore him--be near him--enwrapt with his love; I but wait for the summons, I list for the word-- Alleluia--Amen--evermore with the Lord!

WILLIAM AUGUSTUS MÜHLENBERG.

FAREWELL.

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife;
Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art;
I warmed both hands before the fire of life,--
It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

LOVE AND DEATH.

Alas! that men must see Love, before Death! Else they content might be With their short breath; Aye, glad, when the pale sun Showed restless day was done, And endless Rest begun.

Glad, when with strong, cool hand Death clasped their own, And with a strange command Hushed every moan; Glad to have finished pain, And labor wrought in vain, Blurred by Sin's deepening stain.

But Love's insistent voice Bids self to flee-- "Live that I may rejoice, Live on, for me!" So, for Love's cruel mind, Men fear this Rest to find, Nor know great Death is kind!

MARGARETTA WADE DELAND.

TO DEATH.

Methinks it were no pain to die On such an eve, when such a sky O'er-canopies the west; To gaze my fill on yon calm deep, And, like an infant, fall asleep On Earth, my mother's breast.

There's peace and welcome in yon sea Of endless blue tranquillity: These clouds are living things; I trace their veins of liquid gold, I see them solemnly unfold Their soft and fleecy wings.

These be the angels that convey Us weary children of a day-- Life's tedious nothing o'er-- Where neither passions come, nor woes, To vex the genius of repose On Death's majestic shore.

No darkness there divides the sway With startling dawn and dazzling day; But gloriously serene Are the interminable plains: One fixed, eternal sunset reigns O'er the wide silent scene.

I cannot doff all human fear; I know thy greeting is severe To this poor shell of clay: Yet come, O Death! thy freezing kiss Emancipates! thy rest is bliss! I would I were away!

From the German of GLUCK.

ASLEEP, ASLEEP.

"And so saying, he fell asleep."

MARTYRDOM OF SAINT STEPHEN.

Asleep! asleep! men talk of "sleep," When all adown the silent deep The shades of night are stealing; When like a curtain, soft and vast, The darkness over all is cast, And sombre stillness comes at last, To the mute heart appealing.

Asleep! asleep! when soft and low The patient watchers come and go, Their loving vigil keeping; When from the dear eyes fades the light, When pales the flush so strangely bright, And the glad spirit takes its flight, We speak of death as "sleeping."

Or when, as dies the orb of day, The aged Christian sinks away, And the lone mourner weepeth; When thus the pilgrim goes to rest, With meek hands folded on his breast, And his last sigh a prayer confessed-- We say of such, "He sleepeth."

But when amidst a shower of stones, And mingled curses, shrieks, and groans, The death-chill slowly creepeth; When falls at length the dying head, And streams the life-blood dark and red, A thousand voices cry, "He's dead"; But who shall say, "He sleepeth"?

"He fell asleep." A pen divine Hath writ that epitaph of thine; And though the days are hoary, Yet beautiful thy rest appears-- Unsullied by the lapse of years-- And still we read, with thankful tears, The tale of grace and glory.

Asleep! asleep! though not for thee The touch of loving lips might be, In sadly sweet leave-taking: Though not for thee the last caress, The look of untold tenderness, The love that dying hours can press From hearts with silence breaking.

LUCY A. BENNETT.

REST.

I lay me down to sleep,
With little care
Whether my waking find
Me here, or there.

A bowing, burdened head
That only asks to rest,
Unquestioning, upon
A loving breast.

My good right-hand forgets
Its cunning now;
To march the weary march
I know not how.

I am not eager, bold,
Nor strong,--all that is past;
I am ready not to do,
At last, at last.

My half-day's work is done,
And this is all my part,--
I give a patient God
My patient heart;

And grasp his banner still,
Though all the blue be dim;
These stripes as well as stars
Lead after him.

MARY WOOLSEY HOWLAND.

IN HARBOR.

I think it is over, over, I think it is over at last: Voices of foemen and lover, The sweet and the bitter, have passed: Life, like a tempest of ocean Hath outblown its ultimate blast: There's but a faint sobbing seaward While the calm of the tide deepens leeward, And behold! like the welcoming quiver Of heart-pulses throbbed through the river, Those lights in the harbor at last, The heavenly harbor at last!

I feel it is over! over! For the winds and the waters surcease; Ah, few were the days of the rover That smiled in the beauty of peace, And distant and dim was the omen That hinted redress or release! From the ravage of life, and its riot, What marvel I yearn for the quiet Which bides in the harbor at last,-- For the lights, with their welcoming quiver That throb through the sanctified river, Which girdle the harbor at last, This heavenly harbor at last?

I know it is over, over, I know it is over at last! Down sail! the sheathed anchor uncover, For the stress of the voyage has passed: Life, like a tempest of ocean, Hath outbreathed its ultimate blast: There's but a faint sobbing seaward, While the calm of the tide deepens leeward; And behold! like the welcoming quiver Of heart-pulses throbbed through the river, Those lights in the harbor at last, The heavenly harbor at last!

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.

HUSH!

Oh, hush thee, Earth! Fold thou thy weary palms!
The sunset glory fadeth in the west;
The purple splendor leaves the mountain's crest;
Gray twilight comes as one who beareth alms,
Darkness and silence and delicious calms.
Take thou the gift, O Earth! On Night's soft breast
Lay thy tired head and sink to dreamless rest,
Lulled by the music of her evening psalms.
Cool darkness, silence, and the holy stars,
Long shadows when the pale moon soars on high,
One far lone night-bird singing from the hill,
And utter rest from Day's discordant jars;
O soul of mine! when the long night draws nigh
Will such deep peace thine inmost being fill?

JULIA C.R. DORR.

LIFE.

"Animula, vagula, blandula."

Life! I know not what thou art, But know that thou and I must part; And when, or how, or where we met I own to me's a secret yet. But this I know, when thou art fled, Where'er they lay these limbs, this head, No clod so valueless shall be, As all that then remains of me. O, whither, whither dost thou fly, Where bend unseen thy trackless course, And in this strange divorce, Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I?

To the vast ocean of empyreal flame,
From whence thy essence came,
Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed
From matter's base uncumbering weed?
Or dost thou, hid from sight,
Wait, like some spell-bound knight,
Through blank, oblivious years the appointed hour
To break thy trance and reassume thy power?
Yet canst thou, without thought or feeling be?
O, say what art thou, when no more thou'rt thee?

Life! we've been long together,
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear,--
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear:
Then steal away, give little warning,
Choose thine own time;
Say not Good Night,--but in some brighter clime
Bid me Good Morning.

ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD.

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